


Potager du Roi

by Vita_S_West



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse & Related Fandoms, Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Slice of Life, one angry Max
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vita_S_West/pseuds/Vita_S_West
Summary: Fluff! Domesticity! Vegetable gardens! Murder! Betrayal!An outrageous crime has been committed and Max DeBryn is on the case, but his prime suspect is none other than his beloved, his partner—Morse...
Relationships: Max Debryn/Inspector Morse
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Potager du Roi

One of history’s most extravagant vegetable gardens was the _potager du Roi_ at Versailles. It was designed and created in 1683 for the Sun King himself, absolute monarch, Louis XIV—absolutely not a gardener himself. With the palace’s three thousand mouths to feed, it ran 23 acres. (More than 90,000 square metres.) The garden produced the gamut, from carrots and beans and cabbages and leeks to gooseberries and cherries and pears, among hundreds of other species. Louis XIV demanded—he was the king, after all—that he be delivered fresh salad greens and asparagus in January.

A gardener is king of their garden. And Max was of his.

He may not have had 23 acres, but he had a patch that was all his own and that was good enough for him.

The only damper was quite a recent one. It was one connected to a happier occasion, but one that smarted Max and pulled at his patience worse than a plaintive child. It was connected to Morse, who, as their relationship advanced and deepened, was beginning to spend more time at the house. The damper wasn’t Morse’s presence. Rather, it was a cigarette-butt shaped damper Max found in his garden as he was cleaning and preparing the yard for spring planting.

Carrying the small pile inside, Max had thrust them between Morse’s face and the crossword he was engrossed in. 

“And what do you call this?” Max had demanded coolly.

“I put them outside,” Morse had responded, pulling his head back, nose wrinkled, to look at the cigarette butts and then Max’s fuming expression.

“In _my_ garden.”

“It was just a patch of dirt.”

“It was not! If you continue to misuse my space you won’t be coming here anymore,” Max had said before storming off to dispose of them properly.

“Max!” Morse had stuttered.

But Max wouldn’t hear of it until he had extracted a promise from Morse to never be so careless where Max’s garden was concerned again. It was Max’s sanctuary. While Morse was welcome, it was more in the vein of _jure uxoris._

For a time, the decree was unquestioned and respected in its entirety, until—by the standard of Max, as opposed to Morse, who frankly thought the entire situation was, at worst, a somewhat grubby inconvenience—tragedy struck.

***

Max woke one Saturday morning to find Morse still snoring heavily next to him. He had gotten to bed late, and a little drunk. Max knew this, as Morse had stubbed his toe on the stairs, sworn not very quietly, and woken him. At the time, Max had smiled indulgently to himself and rolled over in bed to make more room. He had cherished the dip of the mattress and gave a sleepy sigh when Morse’s yawning head hit the pillow.

It was a different story when Max went to make coffee, feeling a chill as he descended the stairs.

The first thing he saw was the white of his curtains blowing like a spectre in the cool morning breeze. Next was the mess of scattered dirt leading from the foot of his sunny, side-facing window. Beneath the curtains his seedlings, broccoli and leeks, in a toppled heap of their destruction.

Max stared for a long moment in disbelief at his fallen seedlings, before launching forward to put them right-side up, trying to discern if any of it was salvageable. Some were still in their pockets, though had their leaves thoroughly flattened. Others hung out of their plastic containers, their small roots lying in a spray of dirt. There were more than a few leaves lying scattered amidst the splattered soil. Max did his best to gently slip them all back into the containers, to press the dirt around the loosened and sometimes escaped roots.

He placed them all on the kitchen table and fretted over them a bit more before going to close the window. 

On the ground, beneath the window, Max could see a cigarette butt. He slammed it shut.

It was hard to describe the rage that Max felt as he stalked up the stairs, but he had several pleasantly detailed fantasies of ringing Morse’s neck with his bare hands and then with his bowtie, to add some variety.

 _Carthago delenda est._ More like _Morse delenda est._

The door banged into the wall when Max surged in. In the darkened bedroom, the shape of Morse beneath the covers jolted and then groaned.

Max marched up to the shape and gave it a firm prod. All coherent upbraiding and intelligible speech left Max’s brain. Instead he snapped, “What have you done, you sorry, bloody bastard?”

Whether it was the words, the tone of voice, or the second prod, something seemed to impact Morse and he groggily moved the covers aside. Squinting upward, his white ruffled, he slurred groggily, “Max? What _time_ is it?”

“Time for your last rites if you don’t explain this!”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Morse looked more awake by the second. He struggled to pull himself up.

“My seedlings that you’ve gone and knocked over.”

“Oh, your seedlings.” Morse was already disinterested and began lowering himself back into bed. 

“You go back to sleep, I’m smothering you,” Max snapped.

Finally, the gravity of the situation seemed to reach Morse. He sat up slowly with a groan, rubbing his eyes.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“You knocked my seedlings off the windowsill. You’ve only gone and killed them.”

“I knocked your—No, I didn’t!”

“They were on the ground this morning, with the window wide open, and there was a cigarette butt on the ground outside. How do you explain _that_?”

“I got in a little late and I opened the window to have a smoke, but I did _not_ knock over your plants. They were there on the sill when I came up to bed.”

“You were drinking.” It wasn’t a question.

“No more than usual.”

“That much, eh?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Morse snapped. He hurled the covers off and struggled out of bed, swaying slightly.

Max steadied him at his arm, while maintaining his grimace.

“Thank you,” Morse allowed.

Max took his hand away and stalked out of the room, his jaw set. Over his shoulder he snapped, “You better pray that they survive this after you’ve stressed them like this!”

“Stressed? Plants get _stressed_?” Morse followed him down the stairs, his feet hitting the steps with heavier _thuds_ than Max.

“They’re living creatures, aren’t they? You’d be stressed if you took a tumble.”

“Hm, I wonder if they like opera,” Morse mused with new interest in the sentience of plants.

“You won’t like opera if they don’t survive,” Max muttered.

“Why wouldn’t I like opera?” Morse asked.

“Because you’ll be dead and murdered and buried in my garden,” Max threatened before stopping at the window.

“Ma-ax,” Morse groaned loudly.

“You see this mess!” Max said, pointing at the dirt. “You’re cleaning this up!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You opened the window for a smoke and it knocked them all over. Let the punishment fit your crime.”

“I may have opened the window for a smoke, but I did not knock over your bloody plants!”

“Then how’d they end up on the ground?” Max demanded.

“Maybe the wind blew them over.”

“Oh, the _wind_ did it. Old Boreas came out for a turn last night and knocked over only my plants, did he? Not the trees in the yard? Nothing else, just my most prized plants.”

“Prized? They barely had leaves,” Morse bit out incredulously.

“And you’ve barely any sense,” Max said, cold with fury.

“The plants were fine when I went to bed. Really, Max, this is a tad ridiculous.”

Max gave Morse a grimace that extended to his very posture before moving to the cupboard to fetch a broom. Morse, with another woebegotten groan, uttered “Max,” the way others asked for absolution in the confessional. Max thrust the broom out, which Morse took with his own grimace and an additional sigh, one that let Max know that this wasn’t easy for him either.

Max left Morse with the mess to tend to his seedlings. Some of them could be alright, but they wouldn’t be able to take another stress like that. Max wasn’t sure they would be able to take Morse. He wondered about the feasibility of separating the house into areas for his partner and his plants—the two things he loved most in the world. Quarantining the one from the other. Trust Morse to have a cigarette inside, right above his newly grown seedlings. For a man who spent so much of his time investigating murders, he certainly committed several dozen flippantly enough. Trust Morse to—

A shout came from the other room. Max jerked upright, leaving his spray bottle abandoned by the seedlings, he rushed to find Morse pointing a broomstick at an improbably-sized orange tabby cat.

It was yowling at Morse strutting about in a wide circle in Max’s front hall, while Morse stood in front of the window, staring, mouth gaping. It was a loud, but rickety yowl, one that had matured past meow in longevity and timbre.

“Wh-how did that get in here?” Morse demanded, looking wildly at Max.

“It must have come in last night, through the window. You must have let it in!”

“Well, it must have knocked off the plants from the window,” Morse said. “It wasn’t me after all!” He looked quite pleased at the prospect.

“You’re still the one who left the window open and let it in.”

“It is quite huge, isn’t it?”

The intruder was elephantine in its size and had broad shoulders where it carried its extra weight. It regarded them with wide orange eyes. It expressed some sentiment in the form of a protracted _rah-ow_.

“Well you got it in, you can get it out,” Max said.

Morse leaned the broom against the wall and approached the cat, his hands outstretched.

“Here, puss, puss, puss,” he murmured with a friendliness Max did not usually see.

The cat reciprocated in a shockingly similar feat. It rose up on its hind legs and reached its paws out. Neither saw that its claws were out. Morse had enough time to shout in pain before, claws in flesh, the cat guided Morse’s hand into its open jaws.

Its sharp bite issued a second yell of pain and sprung Max into action. He grabbed the broom and attempted to use it to leverage the two apart.

“Don’t do that! Get the door open!” Morse shouted.

The cat’s jaw released Morse’s hand so that its paws—claws still embedded in and tearing at Morse’s flesh—pulled his hand down to its large belly. It rolled onto its back and proceeded to kick Morse’s hand with its hind legs. 

It had time to alternate between kicking at biting before Max threw the front door open. Morse continued to shout and managed, half-carrying, half dragging the brute across the floor, to toss the tabby onto the steps. They had enough time to see it right itself with another _rah-ow_ before slamming the door shut.

Morse swore under breath as he held his injured hand to his chest. Carefully, Max took it into his own hands and examined the damage. He lightly caressed his wrist as his brow furrowed.

“First your plants, now my hand,” Morse said.

“I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“Quite thorough, whoever it is. Where did that thing come from?”

“Inferno,” Max offered. He was about to lead Morse to the kitchen, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on his front walk.

Cautiously, he opened the door to see a woman in a floral dress approaching the fiend, saying, “Pssp-pssp-pssp, Leo, there you! Baby, there you are! We were looking for you all morning! You naughty boy!”

It was his neighbour and for the life of him, he could not recall her name, though she grew rows of very nice petunias up her front walk. The cat trotted up to her, its tail high, emitting several of its patented yowls. Whether they were yowls of pleasure or undefined rage, Max couldn’t be sure. He did flinch when the woman bent down. The cat attempted the same maneuver that it had used to mangle Morse’s hand, but the woman, his owner apparently—if such a monster could be owned—dodged beneath the swipe easily enough and swung it into her arms. With a cheerful giggle she pressed a kiss to its head as he yowled again.

Looking up, she finally seemed to notice Max, standing on his front steps. “Oh, sorry, was he bothering you?”

“He broke in,” Max said.

“Cat burgling were you, baby?” She pressed another kiss to the cat head. It yowled again, that same plaintive cadence. To Max, she said, “I’m sorry I hope he wasn’t too much trouble. He can be a bit… rough.”

“That would be quite the understatement.”

His neighbour grimaced. “Sorry,” she said again. “He’s… he’s a special boy. He was the only one at the shelter who’s been returned twice. But he has mellowed out a great deal!”

 _Mellow_ . If _that_ was mellow, Max shuddered to think what he was like tense and intolerant.

“He knocked over my vegetable seedlings when he came in through the window.”

“Oh, Leo,” she scolded. To Max, she said, “We’ll keep a better eye on him. He’s only just started going out. Will the seedlings be alright?”

“Perhaps half. They took quite a tumble.”

“You’re welcome to come by and take some of ours if you like. I grow extras for my mum.”

Max nodded, thinking it a fair offer. Though something of a novice, and the owner of a truly terrible cat, she seemed accomplished in the garden. She also seemed sufficiently regretful. Reasonably, he knew it was as much Morse’s fault as the cat, no matter how violent the latter was. They said their goodbyes and, before closing the door, he distinctly heard the woman compliment the beast’s purr before calling it “baby” once more. He wondered if the bewilderment he felt for her was anything like the bewilderment people felt when they regarded his love for Morse. He shook his head.

With a sigh he returned to find Morse in the kitchen, running his hand under cold water.

Max didn’t say anything. He merely sighed and took Morse’s hand from the water and turned off the tap. With a clean dishtowel, he dried it carefully, taking care where he dabbed and the slight hiss from Morse, when he touched places where the skin was broken.

“Sit down, I’ll get the kit,” Max said. “Mind the plants,” he added.

Morse snorted, but did as he was told. Clearing a patch of the table, as the sun shone brightly through the window, illuminating Morse’s hair, highlighting its growing whiteness. Sitting side by side, Max took care of the fleshwounds, though not without receiving an earful of complaints. After the bandages were applied to the worst of the cuts, Max leaned back in his chair, his knee warmly pressed against Morse’s.

“I’m sorry that…” Max began. “My garden means so much to me—”

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry that I wrongly accused you and then lost my temper.” 

“I said that I didn’t do it.” 

“I ought to have believed you.” 

“Yes, you should have,” Morse muttered, irritably. 

“You didn’t take it seriously. My garden means the world to me and you are nothing short flippant in that regard.” 

Morse blinked in surprise and for a moment looked as if he wanted to argue. Then nodded slowly. “Max, I would never consciously do anything to make you angry with me.” 

“Because you do it enough unconsciously?” Max mused. 

“Something like that,” Morse said with a throaty chuckle and cool twinkle in his eyes. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Max’s mouth before getting up to make coffee. With apologies made and the law of Max's land newly renewed, it was time to settle into the day.


End file.
